A Bit Not Good
by wetrustno1
Summary: Sherlock is ill. His body is finally betraying him to the common cold- or is it something worse? In which Sherlock is sick, John is oblivious, and the torrent of rain does nothing to help with matters. Contains Johnlock, Sherlock angst- the usual.
1. Rain

1: Rain

The wind was sharp against his back, and Sherlock tightened his coat more firmly about his chest as a fresh gust of frigid air attacked the bare flesh of his face and hands. John and Lestrade waited expectantly behind him, standing a few steps back in what they knew to be the "necessary distance" required for Sherlock to function in a productive manner, lest he snap about them "interfering with the work". Today, however, Sherlock would not have minded a slightly closer proximity, if only because the stinging cold was really starting to get to him.

It was not usual for him to feel the chill in the air, let alone experience it so harshly in his body. He generally paid little heed to the weather, finding it to be unimportant, (after all, The Work always came first) and therefor not worth noting. Not to mention that living in London gave one a general immunity to cold anyway. But today, the crisp October air was like ice against his skin, and Sherlock found himself repressing a shiver.

"So what do you think?"

Lestrade's voice snapped him back to earth.

Sherlock swallowed, irritably noting that this simple action made his throat burn.

"Accident. Not murder, all self inflicted." Speaking just a few words only made his throat ache more painfully, and induced a tickle that was teetering dangerously close to becoming a cough.

"Accident?" Lestrade was doubtful. "Sherlock, she was found in her car with two gunshot wounds to the chest, how is that an accident?"

Sherlock clenched his teeth, silently willing the urge to cough to vanish. _No. Do not cough. Do not cough. You are not sick. You have complete control. You are not-_

He coughed roughly into his elbow, shooing away Lestrade's complaints with his free hand. "She wasn't shot, the injuries are the result of a malfunction in the car. If you notice, there is blood on the steering wheel right next to the hole that was seemingly punctured in the collision. However, if you'll notice-" Sherlock paused.

"Yes?"

He blinked a few times, suddenly feeling ridiculously overheated and clammy underneath his heavy coat. Was the earth moving very fast, or was that just him? Another throb of pain trickled its way down his burning throat, and he swallowed back another cough. The wind was suddenly too cold again, and he caught himself shivering against the harsh air.

"Sherlock?" John was sounding concerned. Better say something quickly.

Swallowing with a slight wince, he continued. "You'll notice that the bruising pattern along her collarbones is quite distinctive, almost needlessly patterned. The car struck that cement barrier and the woman was forced into her steering wheel, which thrust a small piece of stray metal into her chest. Very similar is size and force of a bullet, but nonetheless, _not murder._"

Throat screaming in protest against these increasingly long sentences, Sherlock turned and began to make his way toward the street without another word, John following closely behind him. The sky rumbled ominously, and he could taste the faintly lingering dampness in the air that suggested rain. Sherlock quickened his pace. The wetness in the air was thick in his lungs, and the cold did not seem to be helping matters. The pain in his throat seemed to be expanding, up into his temples, making his whole head throb. He shook his head, silently attempting to wish away the pain to little avail. He swallowed, feeling another twinge of pain as the saliva burned against his raw throat. Tea would be necessary upon returning home.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock, would it kill you to slow down?" A distant shout.. He turned. A very agitated John was sprinting a few hundred feet back behind him, brows furrowed in annoyance. Sherlock paused, glancing at the quickly darkening sky. The thought of rain, the idea of becoming drenched in icy precipitation, which would normally be only mildly irritating, was suddenly very painful. He did wish John would hurry.

Another gust of wind assaulted the bare skin on his neck and face, causing his entire body to shudder. This seemed enough of a reason to keep walking, so he fought back the urge to shiver and continued moving toward the road. God, what was happening to him? He bit the inside of his cheek angrily, stuffing his hands into his pockets as the obvious answer came to mind. Sore throat, cough, shivers. Clearly he was-

No.

Not possible.

He didn't get sick. Ordinary people got sick. There was absolutely no way in the world that he could be-

"Thanks for waiting." He jumped, having just realized that a very John was now standing directly beside him.

"Mmm, sorry. Thinking."

John rolled his eyes. "Yes, right, thinking."

Sherlock felt something damp on his shoulder, and looking up, saw that his worst fear had been confirmed.

Rain.

John looked up as well, noting the sudden alteration in weather. "Should probably get back to the street- we don't want to get caught out here when it really starts going." He looked expectantly at Sherlock.

"Obviously." Sherlock replied with the most acidity he could manage, though the grating sensation in his throat weakened it significantly. John seemed to not notice, and simply turned to continue walking.

The rain was slowly but surely quickening, and was now falling to the point where Sherlock could feel it seeping through the wool of his coat and into his shirt. The water, which should not have been nearly as cold as it felt, was like ice against his skin, and within minutes both he and John were noticeably shivering. The urge to cough was carving away at his lungs, but there was absolutely NO way he was going to cough in front of John. John would worry, and he didn't like worrying John over trivial matters like a mere cough. Finally they made their way to the edge of the field and to the road, neither saying anything.

Sherlock hailed a cab, (John muttering something about "would you mind waiting for once?", which Sherlock did not feel like wasting his vocal energy on responding to) before settling comfortably into the warm backseat. The shift from the harsh outdoors into the warmly inviting cab made Sherlock's nose run, and he sniffled very quietly into his hand when John was preoccupied with directing to cab driver. He closed his eyes, leaning back into the seat. Exhaustion washed over him. The cab seat was not exactly comfortable, but the aching sensation in his throat was quickly spreading through his body, coupled with the teeth-chattering shivers that he could not restrain. He could hear John thank the driver and settle into his own seat. Some distant part of him recognized that he should stay awake, lest John think he was ill, which was most certainly **not** the case. With much difficulty, Sherlock pried his eyelids open and straightened in his seat.

John glanced over at him.

"You alright?"

Sherlock sniffed, partially out of need and partially in the hope that it would emphasize his statement. "Fine." Pulling out his mobile, he busied himself with pretending to text Lestrade. He could still feel John's gaze upon him, but made a point to ignore it. The weight of John's stare eventually disappeared, leaving him to focus solely on the thick mass clinging to his chest.

Not sick.

Certainly _not_ sick.

*Sorry, I know it's not the most fascinating chapter, but rest assured there is plenty of sick!Sherlock and doctor!John yet to come. And maybe some fluff later down the road... we shall see.

Please review!


	2. A Different Sort of Chill

2: A Different Sort Of Chill

**Thank you all for your feedback and follows- it makes writing a story so much easier when you know there are people out there reading it (and hopefully enjoying it). Expect a lot of Sherlock-whumpping to come! I think I am considerably more abusive than necessary when it comes to our dear little sick!Sherlock. Oh well. John to the rescue in the next chapter, so I don't feel THAT bad... **

**Enjoy! **

He was sick.

Much though he hated to admit to such a human-esque weakness, there was no denying it any longer.

He felt like he might die.

Every pore of his body was trembling in the cold air, and it took all the strength he possessed not to keel over on the stairs up to the flat.

_Breathe_, he thought. _Stay calm_. The breaths came slow, forced, as he willed himself not to cough in front of John. The air was too heavy, too thick to get into his lungs, and for a brief moment he was quite honestly afraid of passing out cold.

"You alright?" Sherlock looked up, his eyes straining to focus on John's concerned face. "You don't look well." John reached out, shifting the keys to his right hand, as he moved to brush Sherlock's forehead, but he caught John's hand and pushed him away.

"I'm fine, John." Sherlock muttered impatiently.

Sleep. He needed sleep, warmth, bed. And all of these things were dependent on John opening the bloody door right now, before he lost consciousness in a messy heap on their stairway. The pain in his chest was doubling by the moment, and black spots were beginning to dance on the edge of his vision. Sherlock opened his mouth again, wincing slightly at the pain in his throat. "Now would you mind opening the door?" A flash of disbelief crossed John's face, and he looked as though he was going to press the matter, but then thought better of it. He fumbled with the key for what felt like an eternity, before finally opening the door. The two made their way inside, John hanging up his coat, shaking his damp hair out of his eyes.

"I'm going to change," John called over his shoulder. "You should too- don't want to catch cold."

Sherlock almost laughed at the irony of it all, but quickly realized the implications this would have on his throat and decided against it. "You don't catch cold from _being_ cold, John." He rasped, but John had already disappeared, leaving him alone in the dark living room.

Still shivering, he stumbled toward the bedroom, tossing his coat onto the ground before crawling beneath the sheets. Every part of him ached. The thickness in his chest, which had previously been only a mild annoyance, was now stifling his breath. It hurt to breathe. The urge to cough was overwhelming, but he couldn't have John fussing about him. Tears began to well up at the cough tugged at his lungs, forcing him to clap a hand across his mouth. _You are in control. You are in control._ He waited until John was upstairs, until he could hear the shower turn on and the bathroom door close, before turning into the pillow, muffling the wheezing coughs into the cool fabric. The coughing tore at his chest and the more he coughed the more miserable he felt. He brushed a hand against his forehead. Too warm, even to his own touch. Fever, most likely on the rise. Somewhere around 37/38. Even through the haze of fever and pain, Sherlock recognized that he was going to need a few things before sleep was a feasible option.

He needed water.

He needed paracetemol.

He needed dry clothes.

But all those things would require him getting up, and getting up was just out of the question right now. His whole body felt heavy and lethargic, and the more he coughed the worse he felt and the more his chest burned and made him want to cough more.

The icy fabric of his shirt and blazer left his body trembling in cold, and yet his legs seemed to lack the strength to move. Sherlock closed his eyes, crossing his arms to try and retain some heat. Everything was so cold. A small part of his brain registered the shower from upstairs being turned off, of John walking downstairs, turning the kettle on, before coming towards Sherlock's bedroom door and tapping lightly on the wood.

"Goodnight."

Sherlock opened his mouth, wanting to make John stay, make him better, but no sound came out, and half a second later, John was gone. A few moments later he slipped into a fitful slumber, clutching the blankets in a feeble attempt to ward off the chill that he couldn't seem to shake. His body simultaneously ached and burned, and he could not help but whimper into the mattress, sound muffled into the bed sheets. It was pathetic. However, his ailing body left little room for self-pity. The comforter felt like it weighed a thousand pounds; a dozen boulders piled on top of him, suffocating. Overheated, Sherlock kicked off the blankets, only to find himself shivering moments later.

This was hell.

Sleep came and went spastically, as violent tremors swept through his very bones, making his teeth chatter painfully in rhythm with his pounding head. Every part of him ached. Hot and cold flashed back and forth, and he found himself kicking the blankets off one moment, just to pull them back a half second later. Time was nonexistent. How long had he been home? Minutes? Hours? John appeared to have gone to bed. John... probably wouldn't be awake for six or seven hours.

He drifted back into a restless sleep.

He dreamed.

Dark, vague shadows, half-remembered houses of his youth, his brother's face.

Moriarty.

John was there, running behind him, calling out his name, only to be silenced by an unseen force, leaving Sherlock alone... alone...

Sherlock surfaced back to consciousness, gasping air into his lungs, chest heaving. Breathing turned into coughing nearly instantly, and he found himself doubled over in bed, clutching his ribs in pain. Panting, he realized he was soaked in sweat. His body felt like it was on fire. Gingerly, he peeled off his rumpled blazer and shoes, still shaking from the coughing fit. Without the jacket he was freezing, and groped blindly in the darkness for the discarded comforter. When he could not find it on the bed, he forced himself to stand up, stumbling out of bed and onto the floor when he felt it.

Pain.

Sharp, stabbing, pain in the pit of his stomach, and he had just enough time to stumble to the kitchen sink before he was sick. He retched over the sink for what felt like ages. Finally, the vomiting stopped, and Sherlock was left clinging on to the counter for dear life. Sweat was pouring off him- he could feel it saturating his shirt, his back, his face- mingling with the remnants of rain water from earlier. He slid down the countertop, crumpling into a ball on the floor. The constriction in his chest bubbled to the surface, and he bit back to urge to cry as the coughing enveloped him. Out of habit, he muffled it into his hands- didn't want to wake John.

But as he sat on the cold linoleum, trembling in the cold darkness, arms around his chest as though to hold himself together against the painful coughing that just wouldn't leave him alone; as the sweat trickled down his neck, making his teeth chatter so hard he was afraid they might break; through the haze of fever and pain and gasps for breath- he silently prayed for John to wake up. To find him. To make it all better.

Sherlock looked up at the clock: 1:40am.

Shivering, he curled up tighter and slipped toward unconsciousness.

**I feel so evil… Will John be able to come to the rescue, or will our dear Sherlock have to suffer alone? To Be Continued…. **

**Reviews always appreciated, and thank you to all of my followers! **


	3. Stay

**Sorry about the holdup everyone. But think of this as a Thanksgiving treat.. (for those of you who do in fact celebrate Thanksgiving, i.e. my fellow Americans.) Never the less, hope this meets your expectations, and I always love hearing suggestions/feedback. **

**Happy Thursday!**

The light comes in bursts.

Sometimes the kitchen is very clear, almost painfully vivid, drenched in strange auras and shapes that simply cannot be real, while other times it is dark, shapeless- an endless void of time and space.

He is vaguely aware of another wave of nausea crashing somewhere in the pit of his stomach, and he heaves himself off the floor, sweaty palms slipping on the counter as he gags on nothingness.

After eons of dry heaving, Sherlock collapses, exhausted, and tumbles back to the floor, hand catching on something solid, which crashes into the tiles with an ear-splitting crash. The tiny shards of porcelain shatter on the floor, flying in every direction. He knows should clean them up, except his head hurts too much and his body is too heavy for transport... No matter, John will. John... John would do anything for him. Too much... tolerance. John tolerates him. Mmm no.. John loves him. Irrational- why would anyone love him?

Irrelevant.

John does.

He almost smiles, but coughs instead, and curls up tighter, still shivering.

The sound of a car horn awakens John. Glancing at the clock, he absorbs the fact that it is only 3:12 in the morning, and falls back onto his pillow, groaning. He closes his eyes, trying to slip back into the peaceful arms of slumber. No use. After ten minutes of fidgeting and uselessly kicking off the blankets, he finally decides that a snack sounds appealing, and pads quietly down the stairs and into the living room. The main floor is considerably chillier than his bedroom upstairs. John pulls his dressing gown more tightly around himself, and is musing over what food they might have in the fridge, when he notices Sherlock's trembling figure, curled up on the floor. Half-formed thoughts of toast and jam quickly disintegrate as he moves closer to the detective, worry knotting in the pit of his stomach.

"Sherlock?"

John walks around the small dining table and bends down to get a better look at the detective, noting the broken teapot with concern.

"Sherlock, what are you doing out here..." John gently shakes the detective's shoulder, and is alarmed by the feverish heat beneath his fingertips. John places a cool hand on the sliver of visible skin not obscured by unruly curls, only to be greeted by more scalding heat. Sherlock stirs at the touch, head slowly rising to stare at John. His face is flushed, eyes glassy with fever. John can see the V of sweat forming along the front of the wrinkled button-down, notices the slight tremor to the lanky arms as Sherlock's lips move soundlessly, trying to form words, only to be shushed by John.

"Shhh it's alright... it's alright..." His heart pounds loudly against his ribs as he strokes Sherlock's hair, offering what little comfort he can, mind racing.

How could Sherlock have gotten this sick this _fast_? In response, John's mind quickly fills with images from the last few days, and feels the terse gnawing of guilt as all the little inconsistencies in Sherlock's persona line up: the sharp mood changes, the late mornings, the raspy cough, the dull eyes- and the pieces all fall into place. Suddenly Sherlock whimpers, and clutches on to John's chest as his body is racked with coughs. It starts as the clearing of a throat- just a single expulsion of air, but suddenly transforms into painful, wheezing hacking, fingernails digging into John as though clinging on for dear life. John's heart shreds into a million pieces, and suddenly he feels awful for forcing Sherlock to lay shivering on the floor.

"Let's get you into bed, okay?" He whispers. Sherlock nods, and there is a flash of lucidity in his eyes as he swallows and weakly tries to stand. Shakily, and with much help from John, the two manage to get up, with Sherlock sagging dangerously on John's small frame. Despite the size difference, the doctor does not seem to mind the extra weight. Slowly they move toward the bedroom, with Sherlock having to stop every few feet to cough, or else steady himself against John. After a few moments they stop again, and Sherlock pries his eyes open just enough to stare at John.

"Am I going to die?" The words are just a whisper, hardly audible, but made tangible by the burning gaze of their speaker.

John sighs and shifts Sherlock's arm around his waist, trying to reposition the weight on his bad leg. "Of course you aren't going to die, Sherlock." John manages a small smile, but Sherlock's eyes have already closed again. Finally they reach the bedroom, and John ever so gently sets down the unconscious detective. The fever is radiating off of the detective's pale skin, which is nearly colorless aside from the unnatural flush of his cheeks. John brushes a tender stroke across the other man's cheek, quietly attempting to rouse him back to the real world. Glassy grey orbs flutter to meet his gaze, perfect lips parting in a wisp of breath, when it hits John.

God he is beautiful.

No sooner have the words formed in his mind does John mentally berate himself for such inappropriate thoughts. This is his flatmate. His _male_ flatmate, who is Sherlock bloody Holmes, and is seriously ill, and needs him. As a doctor.

Mental face-palm aside, John cannot help but allow his hand to run the last length of Sherlock's cheek, trying to soothe away the fever raging through the brilliant mind. He pulls his hand away and suddenly notes the residual dampness of Sherlock's shirt, and after a brief back-track through time, he instantly puts two and two together.

"Jesus, Sherlock, you didn't even put on dry clothes?" The angel sitting on the bed shrugs, lips pursing in what could almost be a scowl, but fails spectacularly and simply turns into another coughing fit. John fiddles with his hands rather awkwardly, unsure of what to do as the coughing escalates. He wants very much to reach out, to make contact, but he fears that Sherlock would disapprove. After a moment he turns, moving toward the living room.

"I'm going to get my medical bag from upstairs. Change into something dry, and I'll be right back."

He moves into the hallway, flipping on the florescent bathroom light as he goes, leaving Sherlock on the bed. Until now, Sherlock had nearly forgotten about his wet clothes, but after John mentions it, the sticky dampness of cotton on flesh is greatly unappealing. Lethargically, he moves off the bed, legs trembling. In the dark, he opens the dresser and pulls out a clean tee-shirt and sweat pants. He dresses as quickly as possible, shivering as the clammy fabric is shed, leaving only bare skin that cringes in the freezing air of the flat. Finally he manages to put on the items of clothing and collapses straight back onto the bed, eyes closed. His head is pounding and his chest still aches, and he knows it is only a matter of time before the urge to cough will overwhelm his lungs. Right on cue, the burn in his chest explodes into more rattling coughs. Sherlock brings his hand up to his breastbone, trying to massage away the pain to no avail. He bites his lip, suddenly very close to hysteria.

What is wrong with him?! If only he could just clear his head, is his thoughts weren't clouded by fever and exhaustion- if he could just _think_. The silence of the room echos far too loudly, and slumber threatens to take him. He is just so tired. So _tired_. All he desires is sleep, for eternal sleep, and for nothing to interrupt this blissful ignorance of exhaustion- here, on this painfully comfortable bed...

The room is quiet, aside from the pounding in his skull.

But then...

From somewhere in the hazy reality of the bedroom; Footsteps.

The sound of china on metal, the soft aroma of honey.

Sherlock inhales deeply as the bed dips to the side, and a cool hand brushes his forehead. He moans without meaning to, but the single point of contact is enough to puncture the thin walls of composure that have been holding him together for hours. John's feather-light touch rouses him up to sitting, then guides his aching body onto a heap of pillows, pulls the comforter around him. A glass of something sweet and cool is brought to his lips, and he sips hesitantly, but it seems to sit alright with his stomach, and suddenly his head hurts a bit less. A few pills go down soon after, (paracetemol, most likely) followed by another sip of whatever heavenly drink has been recovered from the kitchen. The pain, which he has been fighting for what feels like ages, recedes- leaving him with only the pillowy joy of protected fatigue. John moves as though to stand up, but Sherlock catches his hand, swallowing. "Stay". John hesitates for only a fraction of a second, stopping mid-step before sitting back down, with Sherlock's hand still in his own. They sit like that for some time- Sherlock curled on one side, John stroking his hand with a silken touch unexpected for a soldier, before Sherlock finally falls asleep.

**Thank god all the terrible angst is behind us. **

**Right?**

**Hmm perhaps not… chapter 4 is on its way!**

**XX**


	4. Breathing Isn't Boring

Chapter 4: Breathing Isn't Boring

**Wow, thank you so much for all the follows! I feel so lucky to know I have such a lovely bunch of people reading my drabbles. I know I promised some Sherlock suffering, but it didn't really happen. Just more fluff. But I think it's rather good fluff, so I suppose its alright. Enjoy! **

The room was dark and quiet.

Not the frightening sort of dark that makes one nervous, but the deep, velvety darkness that has a certain safeness to it, a peaceful serenity that can only be captured for a single moment or two in time. Yet through the darkness, John could not find it in himself to permit sleep to wash over him, despite the lulling calm of the darkened bedroom. He had, however made himself a bit more comfortable, sliding down on the bed and laying down all the way. To himself, John had chalked it all up to comfort, (after all, his neck was rather hurting him after slumping awkwardly against the headboard for so long) but he knew that not-so-deep-down he had simply wanted to watch the detective sleep.

John now lay on his side, curled toward Sherlock, hand still wrapped protectively around the long fingers. John felt himself measure each breath, trying not to exhale too loudly for fear of waking Sherlock. He watched silently, mentally cataloguing every freckle, every curl, every scar on that exposed neck. Inhale. Exhale. Every eyelash. Their faces were close, perhaps a bit too close, but the vulnerability lurking behind the slightly turned-down mouth was enough for John to inch closer. The sheets would twist now and again as Sherlock fidgeted in his fitful sleep, and John felt a swell of something tug at his chest. Dry clothes seemed to have made a small improvement in the matter of the detective's fever, but John knew full well that Sherlock was far from alright. Judging from the flush of his cheeks, John assumed that a fever was still well at work, and they could only wait for the medication to kick in. With a bit of a sinking feeling, John realized that there was also a (quite realistic) chance that Sherlock's body would not be very responsive to paracetemol. Years of drug abusive could well have heightened his tolerance levels, which meant that John would need a prescription for something stronger. That would have to wait until morning. Then there was also the matter of that nasty cough... John had been listening intently to Sherlock's breathing, and was disturbed at the wheezy quality that seem to have taken up a permanent residence. Bit not good. John mentally calculated some details, groaning to himself at the less than satisfactory conclusion. History of smoking, weak respiratory system- high likelihood of a chest infection, if not pneumonia. John sighed. Of course, Sherlock Holmes simply couldn't catch a simple cold. John let his eyes flutter back toward the slumbering invalid, gaze scanning along the lean form outlines by blankets. His breathing was still shallow and a little raspy, but steady enough to appease John for the moment. Tea and soup would probably be good in a while. Slowly, John sat up, pulling his hand out of Sherlock's and planting a kiss on the younger man's head before tiptoeing into the kitchen.

The hall light was still on from when John had slipped out for water and pain killers a few hours ago, and the harsh light made him blink irritably in the sudden brightness. It was beginning to rain again, and the gentle pitter-patter on the roof was somewhat of a comfort as John began preparing tea (for himself), and scanning the fridge for some sort of soft food for Sherlock. Malnutrition wouldn't be doing much to help matters, and he hoped that once Sherlock awoke he would cooperate enough to eat a little. He managed to dig up some chicken broth in the cupboard, and poured a bit into a pan to heat on the stove. He was just beginning to take the kettle off the heat when a painful-sounding coughing fit cracked through the quiet flat. It didn't take a genius to figure out the cause, and John instantly moved back toward the bedroom, heart sinking a little. He'd been hoping that Sherlock would be able to sleep through the rest of the night and burn out the fever, but apparently an easy night was not in the works. His heart sank as he pushed open the door, finding Sherlock hunched over in bed, hacking as though he might cough up a lung. As the coughing died down, the smallest cry of pain escaped the detective, and John was immediately at his side, stroking the younger man's hair.

"What is it?"

Sherlock simply shook his head slightly, spluttering on a poorly suppressed cough. "It hurts..." He gestured toward his torso.

"Your throat?"

"No, my _lungs_." The words were weak and mumbled. "It hurts to breathe."

He broke off into another bout of coughing, harsher then the last, and John sat helplessly beside him, soothing circles on his back. The thin cotton was clammy to the touch, and John felt his stomach tighten. Night sweats were never a good sign, and when coupled with such a severe cough, pneumonia was seeming more and more likely.

Sherlock took a few shaky breaths, sweat pouring down his face, hand unconsciously clutching at John's, searching for support he didn't realize he needed. "What's wrong with me..." He croaked. "I just ache all over, and I'm _tired_. 'm so tired, John..." A sound escaped his lips that was painfully close to a whimper, as he put his head into his hands and shuddered. Sherlock seemed to curl in on himself, shivering again, his voice hardly more than a whisper. Watching his friend suffer like this was more than he could stand, and a part of John wanted to just give him a heavy dose of cold medicine and let the battered detective sleep. But the doctor part of him realized that a few things were going to need to happen before sleep could occur.

John swallowed. "Sherlock, I need you to sit up for me.."

A pair of glassy eyes looked up, pining. "I just want to sleep, John.."

"I know love, but I need to listen to your breathing and get a temperature read on you first. And try and get some more medicine into you- for the fever, if you can keep it down for me. Do you think you can do that?"

Grey-blue stars shone back at him, blinking in sleepy confusion. Finally Sherlock answered; "for you." Before struggling to sit upright on the bed.

A brief listen to Sherlock's breathing, concluded a moderate infection in John's book, and enough to merit another (overly generous) dose of fever-reducers and a big glass of water. However after a few sips, Sherlock handed back the glass, looking nauseous.

"Is that all you can handle?"

A nod. Dark lashes fluttered drowsily, head bobbing in an effort to stay awake. John almost smiled- Sherlock looked entirely too much like a sleepy child, and it was endearing. He guided the semiconscious detective into a more comfortable position, drawing the comforter around him to ward off the effects of the fever. It wouldn't last long, and John feared for the fever dreams that might ensue, but at least for now, he was safe. Safe... It had never occurred to John just how dangerous a life it was that they led until now, and the magnitude of their recklessness what somewhat alarming. He honestly wondered how on earth Sherlock had managed alone. The mere thought of Sherlock alone, continuously, for years and days at a time, with nothing but the tales of murders and rapists and the constant insults from Sally and icy indifference of Mycroft- was sickening. John was not exactly a stranger to loneliness or isolation, but even in his darkest moments, he had never really been _alone_. He had Harry, and his mother, and he certainly had friends, associates- a girlfriend here and there. Sherlock had none of that. No family, really. No friends. No one.

Well, not no one.

He had John.

John planted a tender kiss on Sherlock's sleeping hand, squeezing slightly. He would never let Sherlock be alone again. They would keep each other safe.

"Try to get some sleep," John murmered. "I'll be here if you need me." He ventured a last stroke of the undity curls sprawled across the pillow across from him, before standing, and moving softly down the hallway to retrieve his forgotten tea.

**I am such a sap. I was planning on lots of angst and pain in this chapter, but this happened instead... Oh well I guess i'll just have to DOUBLE Sherlock's suffering in the next chapter. *laughs evilly* **


	5. Breaking The Surface

Chapter 5: Breaking The Surface

**Hello everyone- I'm back! Sorry for the delay, but school ends up taking precedence over The Work, I'm afraid. I was re-reading the last chapter, and I feel like I jumped into the romantic overtones a tad too early, without any sort of conflict in John. I think that at heart, John really truly doesn't think he's gay, and is super torn over the idea of having any sort of sentiment for Sherlock, and I decided that the story needed to flesh that out a little more before continuing on. So I did. And then I bashed and abused and tore apart Sherlock for all it's worth- and then had John put him back together. Hopefully I didn't leave out any pieces... So, without further adieu- CHAPTER FIVE. **

Realization is a funny thing. Sometimes it comes slowly, dawning on you in waves until it finally envelops you in its magnitude. The greatness of the situation begins to sink in, at which point everything begins to come into better focus. However, more often than not, realization simply explodes on the individual like a nuclear bomb- blasting apart everything in its path as all the pieces snap into place, leaving you only with a vague sense of surprised shock. John had thought very little of his word choices in the dim bedroom a moment ago, but as the door whispered shut, handle going slack against the wood as his hand released the tiny bronze knob back into its respective orbit- realization struck him. It was all like a bad movie, his own words echoing around his head again and again and again, and the more he replayed them, the more childish they seemed.

_"I know, __**love**__" _

_ "I know, love."_

_ "I know__**,**__ love." _

Love. What the hell had he been thinking? How had such pitiful words escaped from his mouth, and spoken to _Sherlock_ of all people? Since when did he use pet names around the house? That was just too far, a step off the deep end, toward the silently unspoken question in their friendship that was simply off limits to ever be addressed out loud. The idea that they were...

They were **not** a couple.

Because he was 100% **not** gay.

And Sherlock was just 100%- well, Sherlock, which was just about the same as straight, all and all adding up to the fact that they were NOT a couple. Period. Stupid.

But at the moment, it had just seemed fitting- a word of comfort to a soldier in need. Sherlock really was in bad shape, (his chest was probably killing him) not to mention half-delirious with fever and exhausted from god-knows how many sleepless nights, so it was perfectly understandable that John, (in a moment of compassion) had slipped a little and used a slightly..._motherly_, term on his flatmate. John nodded to himself, blinking, before taking a few steps down the hall, having realized he was still hovering by the doorknob. He made it to the kitchen, retrieved his tea, and had sat down on the sofa with every intention of checking his e-mail, when realization struck again.

It didn't have anything to do with the pet name.

It had to do with everything else.

The shared bathroom, the communal debit card, the cooking and eating and talking together. The lack of any other company besides Lestrade and Molly and Mycroft (on occasion). It was the twin smiles and inside jokes and mental list of idiosyncrasies and foibles and likes and dislikes and memories and moments and- everything.

It had to do with the fact that he loved Sherlock Holmes.

...

...

...

Slowly, almost delicately, John sat down his tea cup. He leaned back into the worn leather, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. His mind seemed to rewind itself, back to the bedroom, back to the peacefully sleeping detective. John inhaled, and slowly noticed that he smelled like Sherlock. Probably from laying on the sheets. The smell was complex yet subtle, and still it clung to every inch of John, saturating his jumper and hair and socks with it. His mouth twitched with something dangerously close to a smile, and a warm wave of something washed over him. He wasn't sure what to call it, unsure of how to describe the sensation itself, but somehow it felt as though this great puzzle of Sherlock Holmes had been- simplified. Not solved, certainly, but broken down into small enough pieces that he could examine them all at once, lay them out and admire each one's uniqueness. He exhaled, long and drawn out, letting himself melt into the sofa.

Dull morning light was beginning to seep in through the drapes in ribbons. John glanced at the clock: half past six. He should call Sarah. Heavily, John managed to peel himself off the sofa and locate his mobile. He called Sarah to tell her he wouldn't be in, and then called Mycroft to ask for a prescription for Sherlock. The conversations were both quite brief, and within a few minutes the flat was back to being comfortably silent, and John sat back down. He was suddenly aware that he was very tired, and that a short nap probably wasn't a bad idea. He'd only slept two or three hours in the last day and a half, and catching cold himself simply wasn't an option at this point. He curled into the sofa, yawning, before drifting off into a dreamless sleep.

He awoke abruptly not an hour later.

Groggily, John tried to sift through the sudden bombardment of light and sound, attempting to discern what had awoken him. He blinked, listening intently. A muffled sort of cry was audible from somewhere very close by, and John shook himself awake, confused. The sound was small yet persistent- a drawn out moan, and it took all of five seconds for him to realize what the source was. Clambering up from the couch, John bounded over the coffee table, down the hall, and pushed open the bedroom door. The sight that met his eyes was almost too much for him to stand.

Sherlock thrashed on the bed, mumbling incoherently, face drenched in sweat. Whatever color had been returned to the pale skin a few hours ago was all but gone, and what skin was visible was almost grey, translucent. John rushed to the bed, hands fumbling as they caressed the trembling creature before him, the beat in his chest gaining at a tempo that was far from healthy.

"No!" Sherlock moaned, hands pulling at the sheets as though they were trying to suffocate him. "No please don't... no please no. no..."

"Sherlock it's okay, it's okay, I'm here." John soothed. "Shhh it's okay, no one's going to hurt you, it's-"

"Don't hurt him!" Sherlock screamed. His hands punched at the air, John's firm grip holding him back.

"Sherlock you're dreaming, everything is going to be okay-"

The detective's breath grew shallow, great gasps of air penetrating into his battered lungs, chest heaving in exertion and pained coughing. The tiniest hint of a sob escaped that beautiful mouth, and John thought his chest might burst in sorrow at the sight. Sherlock bit his lip, so hard it drew blood, and still there was the faintest quiver of his jaw that threatened tears. Even through the fever dreams, John could see the self-restraint that only Sherlock could possess lingering behind the closed eyelids, the endless battle of mind-over matter tearing itself to pieces. Sherlock continued to writhe on the bed, John's soothing wasted as he curled in on himself, tucking his knees under his chest and rocking back and forth like a frightened child. The perfect cupid's bow constricted into a tight line of pain, and suddenly John wasn't so certain that the dampness on the pillow was merely sweat. Sherlock gave another pained moan, and suddenly John was kneeling on the floor, fingers tumbling through the tangle of curls, stroking, soothing, Sherlock's body racked with more coughing that sounded like it was shredding strips from his lungs. The heat being emitted from his body seemed to have doubled, and John was struggling to keep himself calm.

"Sherlock, you need to get to a hospital." John pulled out his mobile, heart pounding hysterically against his ribs. "You're burning up and you need antibiotics and you need a real doctor who can help you-"

"No!" Sherlock's eyes fly open, and despite their glassy distance, the words are 100% certain. "Don't take me to a hospital... John they'll hurt me don't let them hurt me John please.." His hand clutched at John's, eyes fading shut. His foggy mind claws at the surface of consciousness, but fever and illness weigh him down. His lips struggle on the words as he begs for John to understand. "Don' take me there..."

"Sherlock you are seriously ill-" The words are distant, foreign... his head aches so much it's blinding him.. his skin is too heavy against his bones... too hot.. he just wants John... John's fingers are still in his hair, and Sherlock is vaguely aware of floating, moving, arms tightening around him until it hurts- they're hurting him! He thrashes against the arms, but they hold him tight, close against the cool torso that is cradling him.

Blackness...

From somewhere he can hear running water, until suddenly he is being moved again, being put down.

Cold.

It feels like someone had doused him in ice water. In fact, someone _is_ dousing him in ice water, and suddenly he is reminded of the rain and feels sick all over again, like someone has turned up his symptoms to eleven and then some, and he scrambles to get out of the bathtub, only to have someone pull him back. He fights, tripping over himself to try and get away from the frigid dampness, but someone holds him down... he starts to cough again, and the cold seems to be making it all worse. His arms are too heavy to fight... he coughs again and again and his chest burns with such pain that suddenly he finds himself choking on tears. The saline is painful on his cracked lips, and he licks away the moisture, trying to hold himself together. Slowly, the arms holding him down soften, and pull him gently toward their owner. John's tender voice slips through the downpour of water, his strong arms rocking Sherlock back and forth, back and forth...Sherlock leans his head into John's neck, feeling the sopping wet cotton of John's tee shirt against him. The pounding in his head and chest is still hard at work, and the lump in his throat he was been fighting all day finally breaks. The tears fall- hot and heavy, but John wipes them away, kissing his head as he continues to stroke the dampened curls. A warm whisper of breath murmurs into his cheek as John begins to kiss along his jawline, still holding him close. "It's alright," John whispers, caressing the freckles on the detective's neck, silently counting each toffee star and recording it. "You're safe." The water isn't so cold anymore, and his head doesn't hurt quite so much, and Sherlock lets himself fall into the blissful pit of oblivion once more.

**Such torture. Ah poor boys- the shit we put them through. **

**I apologize for my complete lack of medical know how (and John's, clearly, in this story) but I felt that logic was a bit dull, and really we all just want to watch Sherlock suffer. ;) I shall try very hard to update more often! Thank you all for your kinds reviews and follows- it makes this all the more worthwhile. **

**I'm not sure where this story is going, or how long its going to be, so if you have any suggestions I would love to hear them. **

**Hope you enjoyed!**

**XX**


	6. Author's Note

Hello everyone!

Hope you are all having a fantastic holiday season with maximum gifts and minimal Post-Reichenbach depression.

I apologize for my lack of updates on this story- I have been trying to work on the next chapter and have been rather stuck on how to proceed. I just want it to be perfect! UGH.

Anyway, I will work my very best to have a new chapter up by Christmas.

Thank you all for your support and patience.

(And for anyone following my other stories, I will try to have another update for "While Wearing A Sheet" and possibly "Four Food Groups" as well.)

XX

Audrey


	7. Bit Not GoodBit Less Bad

Chapter 6: Bit Not Good/Bit Less Bad

**Hello everyone! No, I didn't die, so I am sorry for the painfully long gap between updates, but my inspiration kind of died, and it took me forever to find a suitable end to this story. Thank you all for your patience, and I hope you find the final product to your liking. Feedback always appreciated, I own nothing, yada yada yada... **

The world is suddenly very loud.

Everything is far too bright and far too amplified, and every cell in his body wants to scream at them to shut up and leave him alone, but his voice seems to have vanished.

Murmurs.

Blurry shapes that form into people...

One of them is John's, and it appears to be soothing him... trying to make him hold still for something... slowly he becomes aware of others around him- great shadowy figures with taunting voices and sharp hands that want to hurt him...

"N-nno..." He lips are numb, and the word is slurred out. John doesn't understand, but only squeezes his hand, pinning him down for one of the figures to leer over him, something clasped in one hand... he struggles, but his arms are weak, and John holds his hands together, ignoring his pleas for help... why is this John not helping him? .. he needs his John... this John isn't listening... they're going to hurt him! Something is crushed onto his face, something covering his mouth and nose, and he wants to take it off, but John is still holding his hands...

"John..."

John had only kissed his hands, still holding them tightly between his own, and when he speaks, the words are distant, echoed.. "Shhh Sherlock it's okay, they aren't going to hurt you.."

"Don' let them.. John... don't..." His words were garbled, heavy... Thick lashes flutter, trying to focus in on John's face, slivers of ice melting before they could observe, before they could absorb... There was a pressure on his hand. Touch of skin on skin... John's hands... so warm...

"...'m right here, Sherlock..." John's fingers on his cheek, brushing.. cool. How odd, just before they had been warm- doesn't matter, feels nice.

Remember for later.

Comfortable sensation.

Peaceful.

Safe.

More fragments float through the disorientation... John's voice again... "..'s okay... you're going to be alright... I'm right here... right here..."

His John.

Safe.

The world becomes liquid and dark, and all he is aware of is John's touch, John's words floating somewhere beyond his reach...

Darkness.

beep

beep

beep

beep

Sterile.

Clean.

Sherlock stirs, only to find a dull ache consuming his entire body.

Uncomfortable.

His throat is on fire, but breathing has become a bit easier... However his stomach is churning in a most unpleasant manner, and the nausea begins to escalate.

Bit not good.

Focus elsewhere.

Where is he?

He inhales slowly, trying to collect as much data as possible without opening his eyes.

Bleach, windex, something that could be peppermint tea.. John's shampoo...

Conclusion: hospital.

Lethargically, Sherlock attempts to pry his eyes open, but finds his eyelids to be much heavier than usual, and the energy required to lift them seems to have vacated his body hours ago. A slight weight along his cheeks and mouth suddenly becomes noticeable, and he lifts a hand to inspect it, but finds his fingers caught with a firm hand.

"Don't touch it."

This time he does open his eyes, and manages to collect a blurry image of John towering above him, before the gravity on his eyelids kicks back in. He swallows, trying to ease the burn in his throat. "What time is it?" He rasps, not bothering to try and sit up. His head is pounding worse than before, and though the pain in his chest had receded somewhat, the urge to cough has not. The few words are enough to spur a fit of barking coughs, and because sitting up appears too large an effort, he must let the force shake him against the mattress, making his ribs throb in protest. The bed quickly dips to one side, and John gently props his trembling body upright, which is enough to reduce the coughs to weak spluttering. John rubs soothing circles on his back, saying nothing until the coughing had ceased, leaving him clammy and exhausted. John strokes his hair hesitantly, before answering the previous question.

"It's about a quarter to seven in the evening- you've been here for almost 12 hours." Sherlock opens his mouth, another question on his lips, but John answers for him.

"Bacterial pneumonia. Pretty serious fever- for a while you were close to breaking 42, but I doubt it will have any long lasting effects on your massive brain." Sherlock's mouth quirks in a wan smile, which John mirrors. There's a moment of silence, and then John sighs. "They're saying moderate infection, and you probably wouldn't even need to be here if you'd just taken care of your self. Or told your flatmate- your flatmate who happens to be a doctor- that something was wrong.." There's a tinge of anger in John's words, but Sherlock is too exhausted to compile a fiery retort.

"Dull."

Even through closed eyes, he can feel John's scowl. After a pause, he hears John stretch across the bed, pick up something. Opening one eye, Sherlock sees a paper cup being offered. It takes a moment for him to remember to take it, and shakily removes a hand from under the blankets. Trembling, he accepts the water, but manages to drink the entire thing. John looks relieved, and moves toward the pitcher on the adjacent table.

"More?"

Sherlock shakes his head, collapsing back onto the pillows, breathing heavily. His stomach has settled somewhat, but the rest of his body aches like he has been in a fight, and his joints seem to have turned to butter. Swallowing, he squeezes his eyes shut, and is going to ask John for something to help the pain, when he realizes that John is settled comfortably on the edge of the bed, and that their hands are curled together in a neat little nest on the sheets. He glances up, slightly concerned that he is imagining things, but John seems unbothered by their extremely UN-platonic contact, and is humming quietly to himself. Brown eyes look warmly upon Sherlock, speckled with a bit of worry.

"Are you alright?" John asks, face creasing as he takes in the slight furrow of Sherlock's brow.

"Just tired." Sherlock mutters, eyelids now feeling very much like lead weights attached to his face. "Achy." He rolls over slightly, testing out his range of motion. His body screams in protest, and he takes the sudden waves of pain that radiate down to his kneecaps as a bit not good. He must have grimaced, because John is suddenly stroking his hair again. John is also rubbing little circles on the back of his hand with a thumb, and it really feels quite nice. An abrupt shiver runs down his spine, and Sherlock shudders, trying to ward off the feverish chills. Everything is just so cold... he knows it must actually be quite warm, as John is looking perfectly comfortable in a tee shirt and jeans, but his own body seems to be crumbling as they speak, and the chills make him clench his teeth together to refrain from having their chatter together. They sit in silence for perhaps a minute, until Sherlock rolls all the way over, away from John, and pulls the blanket up.

"In." He commands, not looking at the doctor.

"What?"

"I'm cold. Get in." His voice is hoarse and raspy, and the vibration of words makes his throat hurt.

John gawks openmouthed, trying to formulate a response. "Sherlock there are..." he glances toward the door. "there are people out there." He bends down, ruffling Sherlock hair and bringing his voice to a whisper. "Greg is going to swing by in a bit, and your brother has already been here twice.. I'll be right here, but I'm not going to-"

"Please." Sherlock croaks, voice breaking a little. "Please, John."

John chews his tongue and glances at the door.

"Move over."

Grinning into his pillow, Sherlock scoots over as far as the small hospital bed will allow, making room for John to slide in behind him. Still nervously eying the door, John slips off his shoes, before carefully maneuvering behind Sherlock. Hesitantly, an arm creeps out and curls around the detective. Sherlock smiles. Slowly, legs brush and arms entwine, and before long, the two men are in a gentle embrace. Sherlock has stopped shivering, and John is placing small, precise kisses along the crown of his head, Sherlock murmuring sleepy sounds of contentment. The light outside fades to orange, to purple, to a deep midnight blue, until finally the only light is from the handful of stars visible above the city lights. John smiles into Sherlock's hair, and is about to drift off himself, when Sherlock's deep voice breaks the silence.

"Thank you."

John squeezes his hand. "For what?"

The room is quiet, and yet John can hear the whirring of the great brain beside him searching for an answer. He is about to ask again, when Sherlock interrupts.

"Just, thank you."

John's hand is met with another squeeze, and he takes that as an apology of sorts. A declaration. A promise. All those things that they won't ever quite be able to say aloud- conveyed in a single gesture. John snuggles closer toward Sherlock, a half-smile on his lips.

"Any time."

THE END

**Well, this is the end of "A Bit Not Good", everyone! Hope you enjoyed it. Thank you for all your feedback and follows. I would love to accept prompts, so if you have any ideas you would like to see fleshed out, I would love to hear them. In the meantime, I am trying to work more diligently on my other active work in progresses "Four Foods Groups" and "While Wearing A Sheet" and will try to update very soon. Thank you all so much! XX**

Audrey


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